


France and England's Terrible, Horrible, No Good Very Bad Sex

by Mithrigil, puella_nerdii



Series: Self-Evident [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Bad Sex, Historical, Humor, M/M, Series, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-22
Updated: 2010-07-22
Packaged: 2017-10-10 18:05:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithrigil/pseuds/Mithrigil, https://archiveofourown.org/users/puella_nerdii/pseuds/puella_nerdii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The title is your summary, your warning, and your enticement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	France and England's Terrible, Horrible, No Good Very Bad Sex

  
**9 October, A,D, 1514  
in the reigns of Henry VIII Tudor and Louis XII Valois**

"I say." --or, more accurately, _I hiccough_. "I say, France--" by god, actually watching the dancers spin makes England's head spin just like them, except, perhaps, not as well in time, "--France, you--" don't have the hiccoughs. "--you think there's water about?"

France leans in smarmily, his nose to England's. England could bite it off. He might. If it stayed in one place. "Ah, _Angleterre,_ do you mean to drown yourself in the gardens?"

"Seeing as I've already gone and drowned myself in a--" damned hiccoughs, "--a malmsey butt, water alone shall not do the trick."

"But it seems you have contented yourself with the wines of this house," France counters, smirking, offering. His teeth don't shine as much as the baubles on his coat and collar. Also, damn his heels.

"Give me the glass," he snaps, or would have if another hiccough hadn't ruined it.

And France laughs in his face, but also snaps his fingers for one of the servants, tells him to bring fresh water, "the little one has spent far too long _dry."_

"I haven't been properly _dry_ since I set out. Beastly weather." Only four of his fourteen ships arriving where they ought, France's new queen doubled over the rail the entire voyage and puking off the deck, roads as impassable as swamps; it's as though God himself was heeding Mary's fits of temper before the ceremony. Well, she's radiant now. They say that of all brides, don't they? But it's true of her: her long red braids are pinned behind crimson silk, and her cloth-of-gold gown swirls charmingly as she steps. Good, she's behaving herself.

The page brings water, pours it in England's flagon; England drinks without thanking the boy or looking at France. Because France is looking at him--in a decidedly France-like way.

"You can't expect me to drink while you're--" fuck, now he's not only hiccoughing, he's _sputtering_. "Stop watching me, you git."

"But it is so entertaining."

He snorts when some of the water goes up his nose. Once it's cleared, he says, "You've the best festivities going on that a king can afford to obtain and _I'm_ more interesting than all that?"

France sloshes his drink about, looks at _it_ instead of _him_ for one blessed second, but then turns back. "It is so rare to see you in high spirits."

"Funny how speaking to you tends to lower them."

"A pity, since we will be seeing all the more of each other, no?"

"So it would seem." He hoists his flagon, and really, he ought to be toasting with wine. "To your new Queen."

France sneers at him. Or smirks, it's hard to tell. "It is rotten luck to the marriage to toast with water, _Angleterre._"

"Then give me more wine, you damned frog."

"And set your diaphragm going?" France laughs, claps England on the back--and then works his fingers past the neck of England's shirt. "Anything, to keep this going. Pages! Wine, for your Nations!"

The pageboys scurry off, and England watches the circles of dancers performing the bransle disperse, though some must ornament their steps beyond the step-together step-together and all the little kicks and jumps and foot-wriggles strike him as so--_French_. Needless frippery, all of it. He casts another look at the man as the musicians finish with a flourish, the guests line up for the pavan, and a slower tune strikes up. England can't decide if it ought to be called dignified or mournful. "How long do they mean to feast?" he asks of the air.

"Until they are drunk enough to dance," France says, "and following that, drunk enough to consummate the marriage with more than a naked leg."

England coughs, though he can't blame the girl, God knows; that pockmarked weak-chinned face of Louis's is hardly one to stir the fires of lust, King or no King. "If he's still sober enough to put it to."

"I am sure he can manage, for a pretty little Tudor Rose," France says. And where did he get that rose? And why is it in his teeth? Scraping out the thorns, no doubt.

"You look ridiculous," England informs him.

"I am not the one with hiccoughs, _mon cher._" But he whips the rose out of his teeth anyway, and caresses England's cheek with the petals.

England sneezes.

"You are so--so cute, _Angleterre,_" France says, and England has trouble believing that's without malice. "It is a response to my overtures that is so uniquely yours."

"Sneezing," England asks without bite, "or telling you to sod off?"

So then France leans in and tests that same part of England's cheek with his lips instead of the rose. "Does this irritate you, _Angleterre_?"

The wine must be renewing its assault on his senses (and his sense) because he responds, "No more than usual."

And he can feel France smirking against his skin--and then, distinctly, his tongue. "It does not make you sneeze, at least. This I find gratifying."

"Perhaps if you perfumed yourself less, you wine-soaked bastard," he says, his eyes half-lidding. The line of dancers moves forward, straight-backed and stately.

"Perhaps," France agrees. "Do you insinuate that you would prefer my naked scent?"

England thinks France's behaviour is a good deal stronger than mere _insinuation_, and says so in no uncertain terms.

"Oh, _Angleterre,_" France purrs, tonguing a swipe up England's cheekbone to his ear, "had I intended to, ah, _dance around the issue_, I would have asked you to galliard instead of to lie with me."

He gathers that France will not be satisfied by the brush of a naked leg only. By god, he's giving this serious consideration, isn't he. "And do you plan on having me in the middle of the floor?"

"There are many rooms in this palace," France reminds him. "That is, if you can walk."

"I most certainly can walk," England snaps, and pushes away from the wall he's been leaning against. The room tilts at a dangerous angle, but it's no worse than being on a ship. A ship in a gale, rather, given all this lurching.

"As arrow-straight as ever, _Angleterre._"

He snorts. "And you're as charming as ever. Is this what you call seduction?"

France exhales sharply through his nose, and the gust of air is almost enough to topple England over. "Ah, you want to be seduced. It will be quite the task!"

_If you mean to sweep me off my feet_, England thinks, _your reek almost does the trick on its own._ "Rooms, you mentioned."

He places a hand at the small of England's back and nudges him along. "With beds, perhaps?"

The dancers are doing _something_; damned if England can follow all their infernal moves at the moment--which, really, is characteristic of so many of his experiences in this country. "I can't believe you've talked me into this," he says, though he supposes he should give the wine equal credit. Equal, if not greater.

"I could say the same. But since you have cast off that _stubbornness_, I think you will cast off a few other things." And with that entirely unsubtle remark, England finds himself ushered away through a portcullis and into the hall.

He walks--stumbles, if he's being entirely truthful-- on, France's hand at his back. "I hope your lovemaking has more finesse than your innuendoes do."

And as if to illustrate that point, France braces England against the wall--it's too smooth to be called _pinning,_ more that he's insinuated England against the stone and himself against England's chest--and leveled their lips without touching them together. "I hope you are eager to eat those words."

He smiles, in challenge. "Do your worst."

With a smirk that, despite the rotten overuse of the term, can only be described as devilish, France winds his hand up into the cloth at England's collar--and pulls away, dragging him by it.

England sputters, as one tends to _do_ when one's _air_ is unceremoniously cut off. France only pays the most cursory heed to it, slowing down just enough to work his fingers between the cloth and England's throat, and turn back to inflict more of that smirk on him.

"You-- " England gasps, and nearly chokes on the words.

With his free hand, France opens a door to his side, and tugs England into the new room, letting England go on the way so that he keeps staggering in. It's a bedroom, and one of the nicer ones most likely, though there aren't any windows, which makes an odd sort of stale warmth pervade the stone and hung cloth. The candles in here aren't terribly numerous, but enough to see their way around by, and France doesn't make any moves to light the undone ones on the way to the sprawling bed. England is tempted to ask just how many rooms France _keeps_ for this purpose, but he doubts either of them is sober enough to count that high.

"Well then," he says.

"Yes," France says, holding a corner of the bed's carved footboard, propping a foot on the chest at its base.

"I suppose we ought to -- "

"Unless you would prefer to keep those woolen rags on, yes."

"Woolen _rags_?" he repeats, his voice nearly cracking with indignation.

France slinks away from the bed to stand in England's space again and trail his fingertip down the slashes of England's sleeve, tickling the shift beneath. "I can _count_ those threads, _Angleterre._"

He catches France's hand. On the second grab for it, at any rate. "Yes, and they're damned good ones. Strong. Sturdy."

"I am much more interested in the strength of the--"

England swats France's hand, which is somewhat moot considering he's already grabbed it, and gives him no small shove back toward the bed. "Am I to be proving that all night?"

"Optimistic of you."

"Hope springs eternal," England says, with a significant glance down.

"Ah, so I shall call it _hope_ for the remainder of the evening."

And at that, England not only shoves France toward the bed but onto it, not seeming to notice that he's trapped France's hand against his codpiece.

France laughs to himself, all too pleased. "Has it sprung?"

"In spite of your best efforts to the contrary."

"I would like to see the results of my best efforts, then," France says, palming him so that the codpiece chafes.

England draws in a sharp breath. "That _stings_."

"Then take it off," France offers with far too innocent a smile.

He is tempted to step on France's foot, the part not cushioned by the ridiculous padding at his toes, but refrains. Instead, he grumbles and uncouples his codpiece from his hose, and the design of all this would be far more convenient were there not now a flap of linen hanging in his way, which necessitates the removal of the rest.

Also, the codpiece is beginning to lose its shape in his hand. Damned inconvenient, that.

"--ah," France says, grinning--no, smirking, it's closer to that--and eyes England's crotch. "So you exaggerate the truth."

"It's the fashion," England snaps, his cheeks reddening. "Stuff it."

"_Angleterre,_ it is always the fashion to _be sufficient_."

"Oh, sufficiency is what you want, is that it? Rest assured-- " England begins, and then stops, as in his efforts to shove his shift out of the way, he's gotten it hopelessly tangled in the ties. "Bollocks," he mutters.

France drapes himself over England as if to restrain him, and takes him by the wrists, thumbing at the laces over his cuffs. "I am sure they are in there somewhere."

England elbows him in the gut.

France staggers back, then scoffs, obviously affronted (all right, _who's_ the one insulted here?), and comes near again. "I only say because I would enjoy finding them."

"You've an odd way of expressing your enjoyment," he says, "but I suppose I ought to expect no less from you."

France is very nearly contrite when he lowers his mouth to England's collar and noses through the fabric to kiss him on the neck, or mostly. "And what else do you expect?"

Smirking, England reaches behind, gets in a solid grope, and says, "Somewhat less padding."

"--a trifling thing."

"Really, France," he says, "I never thought I'd hear you disparage that appendage so."

France whips England around at that, gets a solid, nearly violent grip on England's upper arms, right where the slashes in the doublet bare the most. "I will show you _trifling,_" he says, and works a leg in between England's, backs him into the cold stone wall.

He laughs. "Oh will you?"

"You need only look at yourself, _Angleterre,_" he says, but attempts to accompany it with a sly kiss, brief at England's jaw.

"I see no mirrors," he says, and snarls his fingers in France's hair, relishes the thought of how _indignant_ he gets when his trusses are mussed. "Naught but a bed, and someone to bend over it."

"And I thought you would approve of the Spartan qualities." He hisses, when his throat is stretched from that tug, but doesn't protest it. "They complement your attire."

He rather likes the sound of that hiss; he tugs France's hair harder, to bring it forth again. "Funny, I was about to say the barrenness complemented your king."

And France seems to like it as well, for that matter; it makes him shove his hips forward, lift his knee against England's groin. His voice, however, is another matter entirely. "And your childishness so suits his bride."

The pressure there is something to distract, at least; England rocks against it almost unwitting, eyes half-closed. "And your--oh, bugger it all, you damned frog, if this is how you work yourself up for the act, it's no wonder your king can't consummate anything!"

"Ah, but I am not my King," he says, and kisses England squarely on the mouth.

England says "Mmph!" and then says nothing at all, as France's tongue is deftly blocking his attempts to speak. Once he recovers, however--well, all _right_, England will admit that France clearly knows how to kiss even if he's maddeningly sly about it. His tongue flicks over England's lips, darts in, and his lips don't press forward so much as they insinuate. _Come on, you bastard, I know you've got more than that,_ England thinks, and seizes France by the collar, throws his head back--

\-- and cracks it against the stone. Fuck.

His mouth is still open enough that France can, and does, laugh into it. "Enthusiastic, _non_?"

England groans, though whether it's assent or denial he can't be sure.

France insinuates his hand into England's hair, uses it as a cushion against the stone as he pins England to it for--no, not yet another kiss, there's still space between their lips. "I hope that has not put you off."

"If I haven't been put off yet," he points out, "that's unlikely to do it." And if the frog will not withdraw his advance, then England certainly will _not_ beat him to a retreat.

But France _is_ the one to pull away, though he does take England with him. "I think you will hurt yourself less on the bed," he says, with a swipe of his fingertips on England's cheek. "Unless that is what you like."

"The bed will suit."

"As you will it," France says, and sweeps England around just as enthusiastically as England kissed him, sending him back onto the bed in an undignified heap.

He sputters, disentangling himself, but France is upon him soon after, tackling the laces on England's doublet, nimbly and far too practiced, not that there's any point to goading France about that. This isn't half-bad, actually, the way their bodies fit together, even if all the jewelry dangling off France is hitting England heavily and in somewhat uncomfortable places. He pulls back, to a pronounced tearing sound.

"What in the name-- " he begins.

"It seems I have lengthened one of your slashes," France says, which is decidedly _not_ an apology for ripping the cloth with his necklace. "It has not improved upon the garment at all."

"You blasted-- " England attempts to pull away entirely, but something catches and holds: the threads of one of France's embroidered artichokes about the jewels set into England's belt, to be precise. (Artichokes. _Honestly._)

\--and France curses a streak as blue as his doublet, looking at that and thrashing.

"You'll snap the threads," England says, with a similar lack of apology, though he _does_ think this an improvement upon the garment. Almost anything is, after all, an improvement upon an artichoke.

"_Some_ of us expended significant amounts of perfectly good funds on _our_ clothing and would prefer to not have it wantonly destroyed _by accident_."

"Then have off with it, you," and at the moment, England can think of nothing to add to _you_ to heighten the insult.

"That _garish_ thing you call a belt, first."

"Fine," England snarls, "and I'll have you know this belt is positively restrained compared to that feathered headpiece your king wore a few years back. He looked like a rooster." But he does manage to get the belt off, even if he has to press close to France to do it.

The belt is still stuck to France's doublet, but that at least allows him to draw back and disentangle it from the embroidery with only a few pulls in the cloth. He still huffs distastefully and proceeds with shucking his own belts and jewelry, draping them over the post at the foot of the bed. "It is the fashion," he says, in plain defense of his king, "and I do not think it is left to you to talk, who dresses even his brides like beggars."

"She had on cloth-of-gold, you git."

"Then you are poorer than I knew."

After paying for that dress, perhaps, but damned if he'll say as much. He heaves the rest of his doublet off, saying, "Good god, man, do you ever shut up?"

France peels the doublet off over his head, leaving a shift that looks considerably finer than England's, if somewhat distinctively stained. "Only if that is what you _require_."

He just might, he thinks, glaring. "I shall keep you informed."

"Ah, then I suppose I should leave you the privilege of your mouth," France drawls as he lowers himself along the side of the bed to the level of England's hips. He looks up--a bit expectantly, as if this were the aftermath and he is searching for validation, as opposed to not yet even begun, damn him--and prompts England with his smirk.

"Well," he says, and looks down, gives France a smirk to match the one he currently sports, "it's a better use for yours, at any rate."

Now if only he can wrest himself free of this hose. He certainly feels sober enough by now. France does seem to be endeavouring his part in that, plucking at the laces over England's thighs and trying to tug the cloth down. The fabric itself seems to be doing a better job of gathering over England's knees than actually pulling past them, but France does make an effort at distraction by placing the jut of his chin right where England is struggling the most.

"Damn it, hurry _up_," England growls. Extracting his arms from the sleeves of his chemise is proving almost as arduous as the lower task, and one of England's flailing elbows collides soundly with France's skull.

Whereupon France headbutts him in the cock.

England rears back, and it's a miracle he doesn't bash his head against the headboard, though his vision is swimming quite enough _without_ that to compound the problem, thank you. "_You_\-- " he begins, and it isn't only the chemise twisted about his throat that makes him sound so strangled.

But France grabs him by the hips after that, one of them ruched out of the way enough that they are skin-to-skin, and France seems to think that favouring gentler attentions to the offended area will rectify that slight. "It is reflexive, _Angleterre._ You hit me where it matters to you, I strike where it matters to me."

His ministrations do make some amends, England supposes, though the part of him responding is admittedly not given to supposition. "Funny, I was about to say the same."

"That this matters to me?" His nails briefly peak up on England's hip--ragged, actually, or at least one of them is brittle and chipped--as he leans that smug mouth down to actually breathe on England's groin. "More than it does you?"

"You--ah --_do_ tend to lead with this head."

"Are you saying you intend to follow?"

Intriguing as this question is, he doesn't give England a chance to answer before, ah, guiding him in.

And the first coherent thought to cross England's mind is _good god, his mouth is actually tolerable like this_. More than--France is smirking into England's skin and drawing his cheeks in tight, hot swirling suction, and England clutches the bedspread until his fingers shake from the effort. If only they can continue undisturbed along this route, England just might think this whole thing salvageable. "Yes--ah, damn it, _ye_\--"

\--_that_ is a disturbance.

"_Mind your fucking teeth!_"

France does pull them back--but he pulls _everything_ back, with an indignant sputter and a somewhat wet sound as he releases England's cock. "I could not help my smile."

"Oh, so the thought of biting my cock off makes you smile, does it?"

"It is as cute as the caterpillar friends on your face, though a little further along in chrysalis."

At that, England screams, incoherent, and sits bolt upright, dislodging France in the process.

The outburst sends France all the way to the far corner of the bed and almost off it. He isn't as lucky as England was and does hit his head on the post, knocking off some of the belts he'd draped there earlier. "I--mon _Dieu_\--I thought you could take such a joke."

"If this is how you treat all your partners, I wonder very much how you have managed to acquire your reputation," England says when he's able to speak again. He has managed to get out of his hose and shoes, but his chemise is still tangled about his neck like an ungainly ruff. Fuck.

"Only _you, Angleterre,_ are worthy of such treatment." France, rubbing his head, comes away from the corner of the bed and insinuates himself between England's legs again, palming him and noticeably refraining from using his nails. "Tut, _cher Angleterre,_ you will let me make amends..."

He smiles in spite of himself. "I needn't even ask if this, ah, if this is what you call diplomacy."

France twists his hand, deftly and accommodatingly enough to almost merit that distinction. "That would require you returning the gesture."

"Have off with the rest of that first," he says, indicating what remains of France's clothing. Enough of it remains, certainly; England has never known another Nation with such a penchant for adornment.

"And neglect you?" France tsks, and continues with his stroking, even insists with it. "Or trust you to remove them for me? We have seen how well this goes."

"All the more reason for you to remove them faster."

So France plucks his hand off England's cock and shakes his fingers, pulling back on his knees with the old smirk replaced and intensified. He goes for _his_ codpiece, which is still on, and makes quick enough work of it with a smarmy enough expression that he must think England should envy him.

England, for his part, refrains from smirking when the codpiece falls away. Mostly. He's already gotten in a good barb about that, after all.

...oh, why not. "_Exaggerating the truth_, you said."

"It is the _fashion_."

"As I said." He raises his eyebrows.

France sputters in an entirely undignified manner, and sneers, but the rest of his hose also comes undone and off in a much more expedient fashion than England's. Too expedient, perhaps, and there is a joke to be made, but at least that leaves him in his chemise and nothing else. To prevent himself from winding up like England with it about his neck, he takes his time on the laces at the neck, undoing them fully before shucking it. "It is not so much exaggeration."

And finally, England heaves his shift over his head, though not before trapping his arms in the process. Damned things, sleeves. Perhaps he's sobered up less than he thinks he has--then again, he's still going through with this, so perhaps not. "Really."

"Has your eyesight always been this lacking? It would explain much."

"My eyesight is fine," he snaps, and if France makes one more crack about his eyebrows--well.

Well.

He clears his throat. "It seems we've reached a state of undress."

France exhales. "_Oui, Angleterre,_ you can see at least that."

"Yes. Well."

"Yes."

"Indeed."

Outside, a servant drops a tray of something.

"Shall we?"

"Well," England says, "as we've gone this far..."

"And for no other reason?" For the third blasted time tonight, France settles himself between England's legs and makes a grab for his cock.

He half-closes his eyes. "That one will suffice."

France palms him a bit roughly this time, fingers tight and every callus seemingly bared at once. His hands are much less smooth than he probably wants anyone to believe. England knows the reason--is he the only one? "I do not wish to do this if you are not, how should I say--fully invested."

In response, England makes a solid grab for France's cock.

He gets it, and he gets France arching shamelessly into his hand, writhing on his knees to get purchase and holding England's cock just as tight. "That is--" he pants, "--sufficient."

"Oh good," England says, his smirk undisguised. He twists his hand just so, accompanies that with a firm sharp stroke, and there _is_ a sort of pleasure to this, in seeing France undone by England's own hand. Their kiss this time is more satisfactory: France ceases to be coy with his tongue, plunders England's mouth and the walls of his cheeks and returns each press of England's lips as though it's a riposte. It is rather like dueling, all told, but England really shouldn't have expected otherwise--one hitch of his hand and soon they are both outracing, one slip of his lip onto France's chin and soon they are not even aiming anymore, just tracing one another's faces, and there's violence to it, and voracity--

\--and the tip of France's tongue grazes England's eye.

England jerks backwards with an audible "Ugh!"

To his credit, so does France. "That was not meant to be _open_."

"That was -- " England cannot find an adjective forceful enough, but "_degenerate_" will have to do for now.

"Oh, as though you are any less depraved."

"I didn't lick your eyeball, you'll recall!"

"Your eye was _open!_"

"Yes, we've _established that_."

"It was not supposed to be open!" France rails, shoving England down onto the bed with a well placed swat to the chest.

"Licking my eyelid isn't particularly erotic, either!"

"Because you are a Philistine." He lays on top of England's chest, pinning him--and sliding one hand down toward England's thighs, fingertips mostly, hard and coaxing. "Is this better?"

"As it does not involve your tongue near my eye, considerably better."

"And this?" he asks, slipping those between England's thighs and up.

England's knee nearly whacks France in the eye. "Not without slick, you berk!"

"That was a question, not an overture." He sneers, and withdraws, crawling over England to get at his discarded hose and codpiece.

...He keeps the slick in the stuffing of his codpiece.

England says as much out loud, because the fact must be remarked upon.

France replies that they have already resolved the matter of England's eyesight.

"Oh, get on with it."

So France does, makes a little show of unstopping the oil--hands, not teeth--and laving it onto his extended, bony fingers. "Are you that eager?"

The scent of roses is cloying and thick, filling the room, and England nearly gags on it. "No wonder you think your shit stinks of roses, if that's what you use."

"I thought you would appreciate the choice." He places his dripping hand at the juncture of England's thighs, smoothing his fingertips against the crack of his arse.

He exhales, his jaw unclenching. "Oh, this is for _my_ convenience--well, yes," he amends, "I suppose it is."

One bare slick fingertip circles England's arsehole, and he does decide the correct word is _worming_ its way in, based on the pulse of the gesture. "And I suppose you would prefer to reek of blood and lard? That is like you."

"I--ah--see no need to-- " Damn it all, he can't argue properly when he's distracted like this.

"--Ah, there is your eyesight again," France sighs, pushing that finger in. "Must it always return to this? Or have you lost _hope_?"

A glance downward is sufficient to see that hope, indeed, continues to spring, though perhaps not eternally.

That finger crooks--it doesn't strike, but the flesh inside England stretches well enough. France laughs, and it's strange for England to feel that shaking above and inside him. Dueling, again, or at least that's how he thinks of it. He closes his eyes, which really does make this process far easier, and tries to breathe, allow and welcome the intrusion. Despite what France insinuates, he would prefer not to reek of blood.

All this _rose_ nearly makes him sneeze, though.

If it is possible for a finger to wince, then France's has, inside him. "As enticing as it is when you contract so, _Angleterre_, it would give you much more pleasure to relax."

"I'm trying," he says through gritted teeth.

"It does not sound as if you are."

"I could if you'd bloody well get on with it!"

"Which is precisely what I wish most to do." That finger has ceased to wince or twitch or whichever and the motion it makes is almost a jab. "I would think you knew how to open after all that's been in there."

England kicks him, and is delighted to report France's underbelly entirely soft.

\--and that motion of his fingers was not _almost_ a jab, it was _decidedly_ a jab, and that it passes England's prostate on the way in is probably luck. At least the contact allows him to relax, enough for France to admit a second finger. But it's no admittance so much as an entirely punitive shove. England hopes it's not an indication of how France uses his cock.

"Is that what it takes for you to accommodate me? Why, _Angleterre_, I should have supposed you were inclined toward violence."

"When it comes to you, France?" England bares his teeth in a not-quite-smile. "Always."

France spreads his fingers, scissors them about. God in hell, England is going to be farting chemical roses for months. "Then perhaps it is you who should be ploughing me."

He snorts. "Considering what's been up _your_ arse, I'd rather not risk my fingers."

France scoffs as well--chirrs, really--and prods England deep. "Is that a Viking scar I have found?"

"No, that's muscle, you imbecile."

"Ah, I had wondered how you moved at all with not a scrap on the rest of you."

Should they ever do this again, England will see that France is gagged for the duration. He lunges forward, which sends France's fingers deeper, and grabs a fistful of France's side. "You're one to talk--is that _flab_?"

At least France thrusts his fingers in now, never mind that it's more vengeful than anything else. "It is _health_," he snarls, punctuatedly. "And you--" he strikes a place that makes England contract powerfully, and even France's reaction to it is rather vulnerable. "--you are as scrawny as you are poor."

"And you're as soft as your king." England hooks his ankles 'round the small of France's back and hopes that's enough suggestion.

It is, apparently. France withdraws his fingers and repositions himself, the head of his cock sliding against the dripping, noxious oil. "This is not so soft."

England will concede the point. "Then put it to use."

France smirks, and with the sweat dripping down his face it's almost attractive. He pushes in, slowly at first, framing with his fingers to make the stretch easier. England thinks to remark on the courtesy but then he's not thinking much at all, really. France is, at last, blissfully silent, and that makes it all the easier for England to spread his legs, relax into the stretch. The burn spreads to his cock, and it's--well, it's not altogether bad. And it's even good, when France seats himself practicedly deep, and then draws back to thrust, slowly, rocking the backs of his hips against England's heels. England will give France credit for that, if not aloud, he's _good_ at this, courteous even, when he settles his hand on England's shoulder to guide him and keep him down--

"--and that's when I told him to get his hands off, his bride's waiting for him in the other--" A tray clatters to the floor. Pewter rolls about on stone. A maid and her compatriot are blushing. "Oh, dear."

"_Get out!_" England bellows, nearly throwing France off again.

At least one of the maids shrieks--the other squeaks and covers her mouth and drops _her_ tray as well, splattering water all over the floor and England and France's discarded clothing.

\--At the sight of that, France yells too. And pulls out.

England is not sure what blasphemies he's uttering at the moment, but they are sufficient to drive the maids from the room; the door slams shut in their wake, and the ringing sound mingles with England's and France's swears. Once the door slams, and its echo has rung off the stone walls, it leaves France and England panting in a rumpled bed, naked, somewhat cold, and snarling.

"That was not my fault," France finally says.

England has not yet recovered enough of his dignity to respond.

But when France turns to England with a rearticulated smirk and only a little bit of an enraged shiver remaining over his shoulders, and tries to slope himself back down again, England has words.

"Like hell," namely.

"But you were so enthusiastic before," France croons, and if England can hear how forced that sweetness is then surely France isn't trying hard enough.

"I am _waiting_," England says, "for my heart to settle."

"And your _hope_ to shrivel up."

"Which it's likely to do if you continue prattling." England grunts and rolls over, braces himself on his hands and knees. "There. Try it like this." Not seeing France ought to help matters considerably.

"A shame, not to have your face," France says, over him, but soon enough England can feel France's hands palming and spreading him, and his cock, somehow still quite hard, rutting into the crack. He thrusts without compunction, and when England's elbows start to give, he finds himself driven facefirst into the mattress. The covers muffle his nose and block his air, and he has the distinct and unpleasant sensation of inhaling _beads_.

Beads, for god's sake.

"Up," France chides, trying to get an arm under England to lift him back onto all fours. "It's--ah--plain you are not enjoying yourself."

England heaves himself up, sputtering. "No," he manages. "No, it's difficult to enjoy oneself when one cannot breathe."

France stops thrusting, but they are still joined--whatever else England has to say about this rose oil, it apparently has some staying power--and tries to pull England all the way up so that he is only on his knees, supported around the waist. "Perhaps this?" he offers, hissing into the crook of England's neck.

"Yes, that serves, now for the love of Christ start moving," England says, more-or-less coherently.

"It is so good to see and hear you mean that," France says, but he does start thrusting, and like this it's _deep_ and slow and almost good, actually, they way their thighs slide together as their hips crash. The covers under them bunch and shift, taking England and France along with them, but as long as England isn't inhaling beads, he doesn't particularly care what they do. They move in concert now, France grinding forward as England rocks back, and though his knees slip and spread, France's arm around his waist keeps him from toppling.

Keeps him, that is, until England's knee skids too far to the left and he pitches off the side of the bed, with France not far behind.

The floor is _cold_, and hard, and England swears he cannot be both.

France shouts and curses, pulls out and grabs England by the hair, and comes close to slamming him headfirst into the bed. "You are doing this on purpose!"

"I most certainly am not!" he says, wrenches his hair free of France's grasp. "If anyone's sabotaging this, it's you."

"What are you doing this for? Do you have spies? Are you trying to distract me with the most awful sex I have ever had the displeasure of initiating?" France is flailing, and nearly cuffs England upside the head with one. He may even be trying to. "Are you failing to be buggered because your little princess doesn't want to sleep with my king? Is that it? Or are you simply a repressed skinny little idiot who wants only to humiliate me?"

"If I am failing to be buggered," England manages to shout over France's ravings, "perhaps we ought to try it the other way around," and swipes that fucking oil from the bed, shoves his knee into France's midsection and sends him sprawling to his back.

On the floor.

France barks as the wind is knocked out of him, but once he gets some air in he's complacent enough. "Fine," he says sourly. "Let us have _you_ try."

The bed has been doing neither of them much good, so they might as well try it like this. England descends and crouches between France's legs, spreads the oil over his fingers and does his best not to gag. Foul stuff, this. Still, compared to where it must go--he sighs and puts the tip of his finger to France's arsehole, nudges it in. It's easy enough to prepare him; France seems to be rather smug about not having England's trouble relaxing, as wound up as he is speaking all through, goading England to have a little more care, but England tunes him out surely enough. It's actually easier, when he's in control, to think of this simply as _getting this done_, and soon France is spread out and stretched and ready beneath him, an eager smile on his jaw.

England attempts one himself, slicks his cock, and pushes in.

"...I did say I was prepared," France grouses.

"I'm in, you sod."

"Ah, I thought that was another finger."

England snarls and drives in to the hilt. "Perhaps--ah--perhaps you've been so stretched over the years that you can't--oh Christ--feel the difference any longer."

"--better," he admits when England is seated deep in him, and he lifts his heels from the floor to lope over England's scapulae. "Insulting you seems to--ah--serve."

"I expect--no less--from you," England says, punctuates each phrase with a thrust.

"Then--" France grunts, wriggles about trying to get his hips in what would probably be a better position for him. "--Then I should tell you that this is the worst--I have had--"

"Funny, I could--ah--return the compliment--" The flagstones scrape his knees and send quite the chill up them, but England grits his teeth and _endures_.

Unfortunately, endurance is not assisting his erection's staying power.

He squeezes his eyes shut and attempts to think of something else, anything else, anything but the horrid rose oil smeared over his cock and the chill of the flagstones and the snippets of French floating through the door. Anything but France. Unfortunately, France makes his presence all too known.

"This is not working," he says, and lets his legs flop to the floor.

England pulls out with no great difficulty. "I noticed."

"That was a suggestion that we change positions again, you imbecile."

"Fine. What do you suggest?"

France grimaces, and rocks upward with his hips--but says, "Get off me."

It's no great hardship to oblige, so he does.

France gathers himself to his feet, evidently expecting England to do the same; he turns and sits back on the bed, and grabs England by the hips and by the cock to match him. He takes both their shafts in one hand, and looks up at England's pointedly. "Obviously you will require your own, if I find myself in the same straits."

"Obviously," he repeats, and circles his hand above France's. He's leery of proclaiming as much, given how this experience has gone so far, but this, _this_ is manageable.

They stroke, more or less together, though their knuckles bump and fingers tangle. France is watching England's face, when he can keep his eyes more than half-lidded, and steadily getting harder, perhaps eventually hard enough to come. England, for his part, trusts his own hand: he knows how to make himself tighten outside and in, how to wring shudders from each stroke, how to quicken the pace until at last the relief of having this ordeal _over with_ is enough to send him over the edge.

Through grit, horsey teeth, France tells him, "I despise you."

"And I you," England says, and comes.

France does, or had been, and it is the worst mutual orgasm that England has ever had. He can't speak for France, but he expects to hear the same, even if it isn't true. France sinks down onto the bed, breathing heavily but not laboriously, his jaw fixed in an entirely unbecoming sneer.

"So much for hope," he says. "I think you have dashed it."

"Let us hope the same does not hold true for Louis."

"I have no intention of doing this again. I have no intention of _speaking_ of this again."

"On that, frog, we are entirely agreed."

-

**4 September, A.D. 1916  
in the trenches beside the river Somme**

"This is not my fault."

"I'm as sick of blaming you as you are of blaming Germany." England sighs, propping his back against the earthen wall. The slick, mist-more-than-rain has made the dirt sodden and heavy, and it falls with a patter onto England's helmet and probably down the barrel of his gun as well. France doesn't look much better, spackled with mud and sap from the bullet that almost got him a few hours ago and hit a protruding root instead. "Actually, I'm plain sick of you. I'm sick of this. I'm sick of the mud. I'm sick of the gas. I'm sick of everything."

"On that, Angleterre, we can commiserate."

He smiles, in spite of himself. "I can't recall the last time we've agreed so readily."

France laughs, bitterly, and slumps against the wall. "That is because you have put it from your mind, the same as I."

England imagines his groan is audible even over the gunfire.

"So I suppose we have broken our covenant to never speak of it again."

"It would seem we have."

France's smirk is weary, but evident enough. "We might break the other as well."

And at this point, with four hundred years gone and Hell itself raging around them--England sighs, and says, "Why not?"

Afterward, he is pleased to report that the second attempt is far more successful than the first.

-

\---

-

**Author's Note:**

>   
> [Mary Tudor](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Tudor_\(queen_consort_of_France\)) married [Louis XII Valois](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louis_XII_of_France) on 9 October, 1514. She was 18, he was 52. He died of sexual exhaustion three months later.
> 
> As for the coda, that would be the [Somme Offensive](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_the_somme), wherein the Etente powers, under the command of Haig and Foch, engaged in five months of bloody, inconclusive trench warfare against the Germans. If that doesn't bring two Nations together, nothing will.


End file.
